Evolution of Mornings
by Apalapucian
Summary: "When they said another person got the DADA vacancy, and that they couldn't decide between her and said person because they were "equally competent" and they both "posed great opportunity costs if rejected"... it never, not even for a second, ever crossed her mind, that it would be him." Jily AU. Oneshot.


**AN: **Expansion of a particular line mentioned in one of my fics, I just can't remember which! And, well, it's AU. For Jily AU week held by jilyweek on tumblr:-)

* * *

When they said another person got the DADA vacancy, and that they couldn't decide between her and said person because they were "equally competent" and they both "posed great opportunity costs if rejected" that the board or the administration or whatever simply_had_ to accept them both, divide the class sections equally, make the timetables work, etc etc—it never, not even for a second, _ever _crossed her mind, that it would be _him._

"Potter."

She looms over his table, and the morning light, spilling in from the window and going round his hunched figure, slices a clean-cut line through her fingers as she places her hands palm flat on the table. Merlin, he even got _this_ table, the bigger one, the one she would have wanted, right beside the window and away from the rest of the intimidating staff. He looks up from the stack of papers he's holding, puts down his mug of coffee. She notices his fingers around that mug, remembering, with a sudden onslaught of nostalgia, all those Hogwarts breakfasts together; the way he held mugs funny, all awkward fingers around the rim, the way she'd always shake her head at it when it catches her attention. He'd always stick his tongue out at her. She mulls over the gradual metamorphosis of greetings between them over the years, from "sod off, Potter" to "morning, James". She wonders, in that momentary nostalgic stoppage, if it would elicit the same reaction, should she shake her head at his hand now.

But then she drags up her gaze and meets his eye, and his expression—amused, not at all surprised—hauls her back to the present.

It's so _bizarre. _He looks _so _out of place, that if it weren't so ridiculous and mildly aggravating she would have laughed at the sight of him. And—were those lesson plans? _Actual _lesson plans? Oh my god, was he bloody looking over _lesson plans_?

"Morning," he says as-a-matter-of-factly, like they do it every day. She rolls her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" As if she doesn't know.

He grins at her. That wide grin, all perfect teeth and crinkled eyes and perpetual-chaos-crowned head slightly tilted to one side, like there's a massive secret only the two of them know. Lily has a love-hate relationship with that smile. "Guess what, Evans?"

"What?"

He spreads his arms and leans back, exclaiming, "I'm a professor!"

And there it is. He's a _professor. _James Potter, a bloody professor. He sounded positively ecstatic about it too, even incredulous, much like she feels about the whole thing, and she grimaces at the realization that the initial shock/anger/disbelief is gone, just like that, and is now replaced by the due… um, admiration? At best? That this… Merlin, she doesn't even know, this _boy, _this man, this unbelievable prat, whom she feels like she's known all her life and still manages to surprise her every day, this boy who seems to have jumped in the book and engraved his name on every chapter of her life (which she finds, lately, she doesn't mind), is _here_. Again. With her. Driving her crazy with the whole making her want to smile/laugh/groan in frustration/roll her eyes in disbelief all in a span of approximately three point two seconds.

"I'll be teaching _people,_" he says reverently, shoving the papers across the table towards her, sounding like he couldn't believe it himself. Lily looks at them—a class timetable, some lecture points, a list of reference books. James is still talking. "Actual people, Evans. Breathing and walking and picking their noses. I'll—they'll be calling me sir and all! Bloody brilliant. I can't wait to get started. I have all the lessons planned—Remus helped me with that bit. Sirius can't believe I actually went with my mum's suggestion—she just sort of did it in passing, see—but I thought, why the bloody heck not? Then I heard from Marlene you were trying to—erm, that is to say, I… well, _anyway_, Sirius doesn't think I'd last a month, but I mean, I'm not going to do it _all my life_, of course, just that everything else seemed tedious, and while I'm waiting to reach Puddlemere United's team age requirement, I figured I could give it a try, and then Dumbledore said yes, can you believe it?"

She shouldn't, but she feels a smile fight its way through her lips, and she has to stuff her knuckles in her mouth and pretend she's looking over the documents thoughtfully so he wouldn't see.

"Wow," James is saying, tirade apparently over, peering up at her. "No comment at all? Not one snarky comment? Come on. Indulge me."

Yeah no, she decides. No comment at all. She crosses her arms and straightens up, eyeing him curiously. She bites her lip.

_Keep the smile at bay, Evans. Shut up. You're not amused. This is absurd._

"What made you?"

"What made me what?"

"Apply?"

He frowns. "You don't want me here?"

"No!" And she means it. "_No. _It's not that—"

"So you want me here." He's wiggling his eyebrows. What a dork.

She opens her mouth, but she can't think of anything to answer that with, so she closes it again. She does that twice. Merlin. Same old James Potter then. Professor or not, he's still bonkers. And somehow, his insanity always proved contagious. So she sticks with that, with no comment, for now at least, and decides to leave the conversation there. She can't help the half-smile from showing before she ambles towards her own table, though. He doesn't miss it, 'course he doesn't, and he chuckles in smug self-content, glasses flashing as he hangs his head to take another sip and go back to studying his schedule.

Better get to that as well. Schedules. Lesson plans. Right then.

On her table, however, is another distraction. Her own mug of coffee sits amid the neatly piled stack of documents—cream, no sugar, she can tell; just the way she likes it—with a taped note on the side that reads, "Congratulations, Professor Evans =)!"

By instinct, she looks around the busy staff room for a second, bemused and touched—and then she shakes her head at her own silliness, because, really, who _else_ would have done it?

James is already looking at her when her gaze falls on him. His mug is in the air in a long-distance toast. He smirks at her, nods at her mug, and she finally gives in and favours him with the first of the many peals of laughter they're going to share that year.

The coffee is perfect, the morning is beautiful, and her heart is excited and nervous and warm.

_Bloody Potter_, she mutters, _bloody _Professor_ James Potter._


End file.
